 | Twice-told tales |  |
THE WHITE OLD MAID.
The moonbeams came through two deep and narrow
windows, and showed a spacious chamber, richly
furnished in an antique fashion. From one lattice,
the shadow of the diamond panes was thrown upon
the floor; the ghostly light, through the other, slept
upon a bed, falling between the heavy silken curtains,
and illuminating the face of a young man. But, how
quietly the slumberer lay! how pale his features! and
how like a shroud the sheet was wound about his
frame! Yes; it was a corpse, in its burial clothes.
Suddenly, the fixed features seemed to move, with
dark emotion. Strange fantasy! It was but the
shadow of the fringed curtain, waving betwixt the dead
face and the moonlight, as the door of the chamber
opened, and a girl stole softly to the bedside. Was
there delusion in the moonbeams, or did her gesture
and her eye betray a gleam of triumph, as she bent
over the pale corpse — pale as itself — and pressed
drew back from that long kiss, her features writhed,
as if a proud heart were fighting with its anguish.
Again it seemed that the features of the corpse had
moved, responsive to her own. Still an illusion!
The silken curtain had waved, a second time, betwixt
the dead face and the moonlight, as another fair
young girl unclosed the door, and glided, ghost-like,
to the bedside. There the two maidens stood, both
beautiful, with the pale beauty of the dead between
them. But she, who had first entered, was proud and
stately; and the other, a soft and fragile thing.
`Away!' cried the lofty one. `Thou hadst him
living! The dead is mine!'
`Thine!' returned the other, shuddering. `Well
hast thou spoken! The dead is thine!'
The proud girl started, and stared into her face,
with a ghastly look. But a wild and mournful expression
passed across the features of the gentle one;
and, weak and helpless, she sank down on the bed,
her head pillowed beside that of the corpse, and her
hair mingling with his dark locks. A creature of
hope and joy, the first draught of sorrow had bewildered
her.
`Edith!' cried her rival.
Edith groaned, as with a sudden compression of
the heart; and removing her cheek from the dead
youth's pillow, she stood upright, fearfully encountering
the eyes of the lofty girl.
`Wilt thou betray me?' said the latter, calmly.
`Till the dead bid me speak, I will be silent,' answered
live many years, and then return, and tell me of thy
life. He, too, will be here! Then, if thou tellest of
sufferings more than death, we will both forgive thee.'
`And what shall be the token?' asked the proud
girl, as if her heart acknowledged a meaning in these
wild words.
`This lock of hair,' said Edith, lifting one of the
dark, clustering curls, that lay heavily on the dead
man's brow.
The two maidens joined their hands over the bosom
of the corpse, and appointed a day and hour, far, far
in time to come, for their next meeting in that chamber.
The statelier girl gave one deep look at the
motionless countenance, and departed — yet turned
again and trembled, ere she closed the door, almost
believing that her dead lover frowned upon her. And
Edith, too! Was not her white form fading into the
moonlight? Scorning her own weakness, she went
forth, and perceived that a negro slave was waiting in
the passage, with a wax-light, which he held between
her face and his own, and regarded her, as she
thought, with an ugly expression of merriment. Lifting
his torch on high, the slave lighted her down the
staircase, and undid the portal of the mansion. The
young clergyman of the town had just ascended the
steps, and bowing to the lady, passed in without a
word.
Years, many years rolled on; the world seemed
new again, so much older was it grown, since the
night when those pale girls had clasped their hands
lonely woman had passed from youth to extreme age,
and was known by all the town, as the `Old Maid in
the Winding-Sheet.' A taint of insanity had affected
her whole life, but so quiet, sad, and gentle, so utterly
free from violence, that she was suffered to pursue
her harmless fantasies, unmolested by the world, with
whose business or pleasures she had nought to do.
She dwelt alone, and never came into the daylight,
except to follow funerals. Whenever a corpse was
borne along the street, in sunshine, rain, or snow,
whether a pompous train, of the rich and proud,
thronged after it, or few and humble were the mourners,
behind them came the lonely woman, in a long,
white garment, which the people called her shroud.
She took no place among the kindred or the friends,
but stood at the door to hear the funeral prayer, and
walked in the rear of the procession, as one whose
earthly charge it was to haunt the house of mourning,
and be the shadow of affliction, and see that the
dead were duly buried. So long had this been her
custom, that the inhabitants of the town deemed her
a part of every funeral, as much as the coffin-pall,
or the very corpse itself, and augured ill of the sinner's
destiny, unless the `Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet'
came gliding, like a ghost, behind. Once, it
is said, she affrighted a bridal party, with her pale
presence, appearing suddenly in the illuminated hall,
just as the priest was uniting a false maid to a wealthy
man, before her lover had been dead a year. Evil
was the omen to that marriage! Sometimes she stole
Integrity, and wedded Love, and virgin Innocence,
and every spot where the ashes of a kind and faithful
heart were mouldering. Over the hillocks of
those favored dead, would she stretch out her arms,
with a gesture, as if she were scattering seeds; and
many believed that she brought them from the garden
of Paradise; for the graves, which she had visited,
were green beneath the snow, and covered with
sweet flowers from April to November. Her blessing
was better than a holy verse upon the tomb-stone.
Thus wore away her long, sad, peaceful, and fantastic
life, till few were so old as she, and the people of later
generations wondered how the dead had ever been
buried, or mourners had endured their grief, without
the `Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet.'
Still, years went on, and still she followed funerals,
and was not yet summoned to her own festival of
death. One afternoon, the great street of the town
was all alive with business and bustle, though the sun
now gilded only the upper half of the church-spire,
having left the house-tops and loftiest trees in shadow.
The scene was cheerful and animated, in spite of the
sombre shade between the high brick buildings. Here
were pompous merchants, in white wigs and laced
velvet; the bronzed faces of sea-captains; the foreign
garb and air of Spanish creoles; and the disdainful
port of natives of Old England; all contrasted with
the rough aspect of one or two back-settlers, negotiating
sales of timber, from forests where axe had never
sounded. Sometimes a lady passed, swelling roundly
in high-heeled shoes, and courtesying, with lofty
grace, to the punctilious obeisances of the gentlemen.
The life of the town seemed to have its very centre
not far from an old mansion, that stood somewhat
back from the pavement, surrounded by neglected
grass, with a strange air of loneliness, rather deepened
than dispelled by the throng so near it. Its site
would have been suitably occupied by a magnificent
Exchange, or a brick-block, lettered all over with various
signs; or the large house itself might have made
a noble tavern, with the `King's Arms' swinging before
it, and guests in every chamber, instead of the
present solitude. But, owing to some dispute about
the right of inheritance, the mansion had been long
without a tenant, decaying from year to year, and
throwing the stately gloom of its shadow over the
busiest part of the town. Such was the scene, and
such the time, when a figure, unlike any that have
been described, was observed at a distance down the
street.
`I espy a strange sail, yonder,' remarked a Liverpool
captain; `that woman, in the long, white garment!'
The sailor seemed much struck by the object, as
were several others, who, at the same moment, caught
a glimpse of the figure, that had attracted his notice.
Almost immediately, the various topics of conversation
gave place to speculations, in an under tone, on
this unwonted occurrence.
`Can there be a funeral, so late this afternoon?'
inquired some.
They looked for the signs of death at every door
— the sexton, the hearse, the assemblage of blackclad
relatives — all that makes up the woeful pomp of
funerals. They raised their eyes, also, to the sun-gilt
spire of the church, and wondered that no clang proceeded
from its bell, which had always tolled till now,
when this figure appeared in the light of day. But
none had heard, that a corpse was to be borne to its
home that afternoon, nor was there any token of a
funeral, except the apparition of the `Old Maid in the
Winding-Sheet.'
`What may this portend?' asked each man of his
neighbor.
All smiled as they put the question, yet with a certain
trouble in their eyes, as if pestilence, or some
other wide calamity, were prognosticated by the untimely
intrusion, among the living, of one whose
presence had always been associated with death and
woe. What a comet is to the earth, was that sad
woman to the town. Still she moved on, while the
hum of surprise was hushed at her approach, and the
proud and the humble stood aside, that her white garment
might not wave against them. It was a long,
loose robe, of spotless purity. Its wearer appeared
very old, pale, emaciated, and feeble, yet glided onward,
without the unsteady pace of extreme age. At
one point of her course, a little rosy boy burst forth
from a door, and ran, with open arms, towards the
ghostly woman, seeming to expect a kiss from her
bloodless lips. She made a slight pause, fixing her
eye upon him with an expression of no earthly sweetness,
rather than affrighted, while the Old Maid passed on.
Perhaps her garment might have been polluted, even
by an infant's touch; perhaps her kiss would have
been death to the sweet boy, within the year.
`She is but a shadow!' whispered the superstitious.
`The child put forth his arms, and could not grasp her
robe!'
The wonder was increased, when the Old Maid
passed beneath the porch of the deserted mansion,
ascended the moss-covered steps, lifted the iron
knocker, and gave three raps. The people could
only conjecture, that some old remembrance, troubling
her bewildered brain, had impelled the poor woman
hither to visit the friends of her youth; all gone from
their home, long since and forever, unless their ghosts
still haunted it — fit company for the `Old Maid in
the Winding-Sheet.' An elderly man approached the
steps, and reverently uncovering his gray locks, essayed
to explain the matter.
`None, Madam,' said he, `have dwelt in this house
these fifteen years agone — no, not since the death of
old Colonel Fenwicke, whose funeral you may remember
to have followed. His heirs, being ill-agreed
among themselves, have let the mansion-house go to
ruin.'
The Old Maid looked slowly round, with a slight
gesture of one hand, and a finger of the other upon
her lip, appearing more shadow-like than ever, in the
obscurity of the porch. But, again she lifted the
hammer, and gave, this time, a single rap. Could it
staircase of the old mansion, which all conceived to
have been so long untenanted? Slowly, feebly, yet
heavily, like the pace of an aged and infirm person,
the step approached, more distinct on every downward
stair, till it reached the portal. The bar fell on
the inside; the door was opened. One upward
glance, towards the church-spire, whence the sunshine
had just faded, was the last that the people saw
of the `Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet.'
`Who undid the door?' asked many.
This question, owing to the depth of shadow beneath
the porch, no one could satisfactorily answer.
Two or three aged men, while protesting against an
inference, which might be drawn, affirmed that the
person within was a negro, and bore a singular resemblance
to old Cæsar, formerly a slave in the house,
but freed by death some thirty years before.
`Her summons has waked up a servant of the old
family,' said one, half seriously.
`Let us wait here,' replied another. `More guests
will knock at the door, anon. But, the gate of the
grave-yard should be thrown open!'
Twilight had overspread the town, before the crowd
began to separate, or the comments on this incident
were exhausted. One after another was wending his
way homeward, when a coach — no common spectacle
in those days — drove slowly into the street. It
was an old-fashioned equipage, hanging close to the
ground, with arms on the panels, a footman behind,
and a grave, corpulent coachman seated high in front
There was something awful, in the heavy rumbling
of the wheels. The coach rolled down the
street, till, coming to the gateway of the deserted
mansion, it drew up, and the footman sprang to the
ground.
`Whose grand coach is this?' asked a very inquisitive
body.
The footman made no reply, but ascended the
steps of the old house, gave three raps, with the iron
hammer, and returned to open the coach-door. An
old man, possessed of the heraldie lore so common
in that day, examined the shield of arms on the
panel.
`Azure, a lion's head erased, between three flower
de luces,' said he; then whispered the name of the
family to whom these bearings belonged. The last
inheritor of its honors was recently dead, after a long
residence amid the splendor of the British court,
where his birth and wealth had given him no mean
station. `He left no child,' continued the herald,
`and these arms, being in a lozenge, betoken that the
coach appertains to his widow.'
Further disclosures, perhaps, might have been
made, had not the speaker suddenly been struck
dumb, by the stern eye of an ancient lady, who thrust
forth her head from the coach, preparing to descend.
As she emerged, the people saw that her dress was
magnificent, and her figure dignified, in spite of age
and infirmity — a stately ruin, but with a look, at
once, of pride and wretchedness. Her strong and
the white Old Maid, but as of something evil. She
passed up the steps, leaning on a gold-headed cane;
the door swung open, as she ascended — and the light
of a torch glittered on the embroidery of her dress,
and gleamed on the pillars of the porch. After a
momentary pause — a glance backwards — and then
a desperate effort — she went in. The decipherer of
the coat of arms had ventured up the lowest step,
and shrinking back immediately, pale and tremulous,
affirmed that the torch was held by the very image of
old Cæsar.
`But, such a hideous grin,' added he, `was never
seen on the face of mortal man, black or white! It
will haunt me till my dying day.'
Meantime, the coach had wheeled round, with a
prodigious clatter on the pavement, and rumbled up
the street, disappearing in the twilight, while the ear
still tracked its course. Scarcely was it gone, when
the people began to question, whether the coach and
attendants, the ancient lady, the spectre of old Cæsar,
and the Old Maid herself, were not all a strangely
combined delusion, with some dark purport in its mystery.
The whole town was astir, so that, instead of
dispersing, the crowd continually increased, and stood
gazing up at the windows of the mansion, now silvered
by the brightening moon. The elders, glad to indulge
the narrative propensity of age, told of the long faded
splendor of the family, the entertainments they had
given, and the guests, the greatest of the land, and
even titled and noble ones from abroad, who had
seemed to call up the ghosts of those to whom
they referred. So strong was the impression, on
some of the more imaginative hearers, that two or
three were seized with trembling fits, at one and the
same moment, protesting that they had distinctly
heard three other raps of the iron knocker.
`Impossible!' exclaimed others. `See! The
moon shines beneath the porch, and shows every part
of it, except in the narrow shade of that pillar. There
is no one there!'
`Did not the door open?' whispered one of these
fanciful persons.
`Didst thou see it, too?' said his companion, in a
startled tone.
But the general sentiment was opposed to the idea,
that a third visitant had made application at the door
of the deserted house. A few, however, adhered to
this new marvel, and even declared that a red gleam,
like that of a torch, had shone through the great front
window, as if the negro were lighting a guest up the
staircase. This, too, was pronounced a mere fantasy.
But, at once, the whole multitude started, and each
man beheld his own terror painted in the faces of all
the rest.
`What an awful thing is this!' cried they.
A shriek, too fearfully distinct for doubt, had been
heard within the mansion, breaking forth suddenly,
and succeeded by a deep stillness, as if a heart had
burst in giving it utterance. The people knew not
whether to fly from the very sight of the house, or
Amid their confusion and affright, they were
somewhat reassured by the appearance of their clergyman,
a venerable patriarch, and equally a saint,
who had taught them and their fathers the way to
Heaven, for more than the space of an ordinary lifetime.
He was a reverend figure, with long, white
hair upon his shoulders, a white beard upon his breast,
and a back so bent over his staff, that he seemed to
be looking downward, continually, as if to choose a
proper grave for his weary frame. It was some time
before the good old man, being deaf, and of impaired
intellect, could be made to comprehend such portions
of the affair, as were comprehensible at all. But,
when possessed of the facts, his energies assumed
unexpected vigor.
`Verily,' said the old gentleman, `it will be fitting
that I enter the mansion-house of the worthy Colonel
Fenwicke, lest any harm should have befallen that
true Christian woman, whom ye call the "Old Maid
in the Winding-Sheet." '
Behold, then, the venerable clergyman ascending
the steps of the mansion, with a torch-bearer behind
him. It was the elderly man, who had spoken to the
Old Maid, and the same who had afterwards explained
the shield of arms, and recognised the features of the
negro. Like their predecessors, they gave three raps,
with the iron hammer.
`Old Cæsar cometh not,' observed the priest. `Well,
I wot, he no longer doth service in this mansion.'
`Assuredly, then, it was something worse, in old
Cæsar's likeness!' said the other adventurer.
`Be it as God wills,' answered the clergyman.
`See! my strength, though it be much decayed, hath
sufficed to open this heavy door. Let us enter, and
pass up the staircase.'
Here occurred a singular exemplification of the
dreamy state of a very old man's mind. As they
ascended the wide flight of stairs, the aged clergyman
appeared to move with caution, occasionally
standing aside, and oftener bending his head, as it
were in salutation, thus practising all the gestures of
one who makes his way through a throng. Reaching
the head of the staircase, he looked around, with
sad and solemn benignity, laid aside his staff, bared
his hoary locks, and was evidently on the point of
commencing a prayer.
`Reverend Sir,' said his attendant, who conceived
this a very suitable prelude to their further search,
`would it not be well, that the people join with us in
prayer?'
`Well-a-day!' cried the old clergyman, staring
strangely around him. `Art thou here with me, and
none other? Verily, past times were present to me,
and I deemed that I was to make a funeral prayer, as
many a time heretofore, from the head of this staircase.
Of a truth, I saw the shades of many that are
gone. Yea, I have prayed at their burials, one after
another, and the "Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet"
hath seen them to their graves!'
Being now more thoroughly awake to their present
purpose, he took his staff, and struck forcibly on the
floor, till there came an echo from each deserted
chamber, but no menial, to answer their summons.
They therefore walked along the passage, and again
paused, opposite to the great front window, through
which was seen the crowd, in the shadow and partial
moonlight of the street beneath. On their right hand,
was the open door of a chamber, and a closed one
on their left. The clergyman pointed his cane to the
carved oak panel of the latter.
`Within that chamber,' observed he, `a whole lifetime
since, did I sit by the death-bed of a goodly
young man, who, being now at the last gasp' —
Apparently, there was some powerful excitement
in the ideas which had now flashed across his mind.
He snatched the torch from his companion's hand,
and threw open the door with such sudden violence,
that the flame was extinguished, leaving them no
other light than the moonbeams, which fell through two
windows into the spacious chamber. It was sufficient
to discover all that could be known. In a high-backed,
oaken arm-chair, upright, with her hands
clasped across her breast, and her head thrown back,
sat the `Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet.' The stately
dame had fallen on her knees, with her forehead on
the holy knees of the Old Maid, one hand upon the
floor, and the other pressed convulsively against her
heart. It clutched a lock of hair, once sable, now
discolored with a greenish mould. As the priest and
features assumed such a semblance of shifting expression,
that they trusted to hear the whole mystery
explained, by a single word. But it was only the
shadow of a tattered curtain, waving betwixt the dead
face and the moonlight.
`Both dead!' said the venerable man. `Then
who shall divulge the secret? Methinks it glimmers
to-and-fro in my mind, like the light and shadow
across the Old Maid's face. And now 't is gone!'
| Twice-told tales | |